In the Dark I See
by Marmalah
Summary: They always told him, "You can't run away from your destiny, Dean." And he'd denied it every time, because there was no such thing as destiny or fate–and yet he had still ended up here. The angels had told him time and time again that you can't change the past–so maybe when the future was already set in stone you couldn't change that, either. / AU to 5.04/before 7.17


_I need to start making up my own plots and ideas instead of writing predictable stories..._

_This is an AU of season 5 & 7 (more like 5.04 & anytime before The Born-Again Identity (I always forget which ep. that is)). Further explanation is at the bottom._

* * *

_**In the Dark I See**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

They always told him, _you can't run away from your destiny, Dean. _And he'd denied it every time, because there was no such thing as destiny or fate–

And yet he had still ended up here. The angels had told him time and time again that _you can't change the past, _so maybe when the future was already set in stone you couldn't change that, either.

Goddamn, he had tried. He'd tried as hard as he possibly could to keep Sam safe, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough. No matter how many times Dean reminded himself; berated and beat himself up over it that _he had to protect Sam no matter the cost_, because he was his little brother (_it was a mantra, practically his motto now_), he failed to do it every single time.

"I'm sorry," he said to the empty motel room and the second bed (_farthest away from the door, always farther away from danger)_ that was still made. Still untouched. Still empty, and always would be. He didn't know why he got a room with two beds, but when the woman had asked, it seemed too difficult to say he only needed one. Maybe he was clinging on to hope too hard. Maybe he should let go. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

He was too afraid to let go.

_- - - /_

Sam had always been similar to John, which was why they would constantly butt heads–but maybe Dean was practically identical to his father. "Leave," he had said, without even looking at Sam's face, because he was a damn coward and nothing more. "Just… go." _And don't come back, _he almost added, but he really didn't mean that and it was just nostalgic and melodramatic in all the wrong ways.

He had thought what he was doing was right at the time, because he just couldn't handle it anymore. Everything was falling apart and Bobby was dead and he couldn't even help Sam anymore, who was slowly going insane while he just stood back and watched.

Somehow he'd made it even worse, by telling Sam to go because he wasn't coping–he couldn't cope, and yet Sam was the one with Lucifer running rampant in his head. Bobby's death had been the icing on the cake–one too many people dead and Dean just wanted it to stop. _Oh God, what have I done, _Dean thought, staring at the beer in his hands (_when did he start drinking? Or, more accurately, when did he ever stop?_) and wondering where exactly he had started to fuck everything up.

___- - - /_

A steady _drip, drip, drip_ brought him out of his thoughts and Dean blinked sluggishly, trying to decide exactly where he was and why he could only see white. For a moment he foolishly thought, _maybe this is Heaven, _before he realized that he hurt and that wasn't right and he wasn't good enough to go to Heaven anymore.

Dean's memories came back quickly and left him with a headache the size of Texas, and he remembered looking for Sam and finding a black dog instead. His leg had been practically torn off (_and wouldn't that be a bitch, because how was he supposed to find his brother with only one leg?_) but he was sure he killed it, he just must've passed out somewhere along the way.

"I wasn't expecting you to wake up so early." _Sam, _he almost said, and his hopeful gaze turned toward the door and landed only on who he supposed was his doctor and he visibly deflated.

"I need to find my brother," he said immediately, and the doctor's eyebrows furrowed. "Please," Dean added as he attempted to sit up and failed miserably.

"You need to answer a few questions first." The doctor looked confused but he stood his ground, and Dean knew that the questions were things he couldn't answer. They never were.

"Please," Dean pleaded again, as if that little word would make all the difference. "He's a Winchester," (_he probably shouldn't have said their real last name but now it didn't matter anymore_–_**where was Sam?**_) "and if I don't find him he won't _ever_ be found or he could be in danger or _worse–"_

The doctor held his hands up and said, "We can compromise. You answer my questions and I'll help you find him. Deal?" He seemed honest but Dean wasn't falling for it. All he could see was white and it could've been the drugs or there was a possibility he was just going crazy, but that didn't even seem like a big deal; why the hell did it matter if he was sane or not? _You can't find him, _he thought but didn't say it aloud because he knew there was no way he was getting out of here.

___- - - /_

A week and a half later, against his doctor's orders, he checked himself out. It didn't matter that he was limping or the painkillers were making him a little loopy. All that mattered was finding Sam. It had been two months now and there was no sign of him anywhere. Two months was a long time for someone to go missing, but it was a hell of a long time for a hunter to just disappear. After this long, normally what you found wasn't what you were hoping for. Sometimes you were lucky if you even found a body.

Dean tried his best to clear his mind and focus on only one thing: find Sam. He would find him _(alive) _if it was the last damned thing he ever did.

He started asking around. He started with what little hunters he knew, but they all seemed to be dropping like flies, and before he knew it he really was completely _alone. _Everywhere he stopped (_even if the picture he held was a little outdated, it was still his little brother_), everyone shook their head with a small, useless, _"Sorry, haven't seen 'im." _He checked the obvious places first, like Lawrence, yet, somehow he caught a break without even trying.

Two more months passed slowly, weaving through his mind with as much fluidity as water, and the only thing he could remember was the constant order in his head. _Get to Sam, find Sam, please, _but he didn't know quite who he was begging for anymore. Dean walked into a bar in Detroit that had definitely seen better days, and when his eyes immediately landed on a tall, hunched figure (_he would recognize Sam anywhere_) his heart leapt into his throat. He reached out and didn't notice the name _Sam _tumbling off of his lips in such blind, pure relief until everything came rushing at him full force.

When he turned around, Dean realized it wasn't really Sam. Not at all.

___- - - /_

"Dean." Sam stared at him blankly, and he didn't sound surprised. In fact, he didn't sound like much of anything; not surprised, not hopeful, not even relieved. Just monotonous. With a barely contained shudder Dean noticed he was acting exactly as he had when he was soulless. _It's not happening again, _he thought desperately, _it can't. He's okay. He's alive. Everything is fine. _"I knew you would come eventually. I'm a bit taken aback that you could find me this fast." His facial expression stayed the same.

"Really?" Dean inquired, his eyebrows furrowing as he leaned closer to the man that didn't even seem like his brother at all. "You think four months is fast? Dammit, Sam, I've been looking all over the damned country for you! You wouldn't even answer your phone!" He could feel the rage bubbling up and taking control _(in a way he welcomed it–it was the first time he'd felt anything other than fear, guilt, or panic_) but he struggled to take control and push it back down. Anger was what got him into this mess and it surely wouldn't drag him out.

Sam smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Sorry, Sam couldn't really answer his phone at the time."

Perhaps having Lucifer as his only company was driving Sam crazy and he referred to himself in third person. And now they were both two insane brothers with the last name Winchester and their own personal description of _cursed_.

He wished that were true, but he knew better than that. The color drained from Dean's face, and his hand automatically reached for his gun. "What? Who the hell are you and what have you done with my brother?" (_Useless words, Sam is gone, terrible brother, nothing can save him, nothing can save you._)

Sam–or whatever the hell it was–held up his hands with one eyebrow raised. "Whoa, whoa, Dean, don't want to cause a scene, do you? There are quite a few people here, and you wouldn't want anyone to get hurt." He–it–laughed and Dean cringed because it sounded so much like Sam that he wanted to be sick. If there wasn't something terribly wrong with this situation, he could've cried because it sounded so _beautiful _to hear his brother laugh like that (_how long had it been since he'd last heard it? More than four months, he knew for sure_) and a part of him didn't want to admit it, but he really didn't think he'd ever hear it again. "Let's take this outside, shall we?"

And just a few moments later, Dean was standing in an alley outside of a bar in Detroit, Michigan, with a man who looked exactly like his brother but was someone else entirely. "So, are you going to tell me what the fuck you are?" Dean snarled, pulling out his gun and holding it steadily to his 'brother's' chest, but he could see his hand shaking and he already understood that he wouldn't be able to pull the trigger no matter how hard he tried.

Not-Sam just smiled again and shook his head. "Oh, Dean, if only you knew. Go ahead, shoot, but I _am _Sam. Did you ever stop to think that maybe telling me to leave, just like _Dad_ told me, that I wouldn't change? Being cast out by your only family left–the only person you trust anymore and the only one you look up to–what do you think that does to a person?"

Dean flinched; the words that he really didn't want to hear striking him hard, but he clung to denial. It was all he had. "You can't change that quickly, or this… drastically. _You can't, Sam._"

Not-Sam clicked his tongue. "It is possible. But, yeah, I knew you were pretty smart when you put your mind to it, Dean." He tapped his temple meticulously and kept his blue-green eyes trained on Dean. He looked amused, and it pissed Dean off to no end that someone (_something) _could look and act and sound just like his brother one moment and be someone else the next. "I am Sam. I am also _not _Sam. You've met me before, actually." He was beating around the bush, Dean could tell, but right now he was just glad that they were getting somewhere. "I was in a different body then; dear old Nick, if you remember."

Dean felt as if he'd been hit by a truck. No, make it forty trucks. It couldn't be possible, it couldn't. Denial was even stronger now, and he gasped out, "Lucifer?" and the smile he got was all the answer he needed. "How? You're in the cage! Sam put you there, I _saw _it. This isn't possible."

Sam's (_Lucifer's_) gaze was calculating but full of glee. "Oh, but it is. And you want to know how this is possible? It's all because of _you. _So thanks for that."

"No," Dean whispered, staring blankly at Sam (_**Lucifer**__, he thought, but he couldn't believe it, __**wouldn't**__ believe it, what about Sam?_) Were all the sacrifices he made – all the sacrifices that _Sam _made, _fuck_, were they all for nothing? Had Sam thrown himself in the cage in hopes of stopping Lucifer, but instead got only a temporary fix and a hundred and eighty years worth of torture?

"Yes!" Sam-Lucifer sang and his eyes narrowed in excitement. "This is very real, Dean, and it's all because of you," he repeated, stepping closer until Dean was trapped against the wall, and then his stomach churned violently (_distantly, he thought it would be fucking hilarious to throw up on the devil, even if he was wearing his brother's meatsuit)_. "You want to know how, right? Sam has already said yes to me once, you know, and that created a link between him and I that can penetrate even the cage. It happens with every angel and their vessel, but I'm guessing you didn't know _that_.

"I started out as hallucinations, and once you told him to go, he fought me for as long as he could. Oh, he struggled, and your brother is pretty strong-willed, I'll give him that. He ignored me for a while; a lot longer than I'd thought he was capable. But after three months, the loneliness was killing him. _I was there for him. _I talked to him; kept him company, and eventually he acknowledged my presence and talked to me, too. He let me in."

Dean's head was swimming and he struggled to keep his knees from buckling. He did this, and all he could think was _all my fault, I'm so sorry, Sammy, so sorry, so sorry, _and he didn't know if he'd be able to make it through Sam-Lucifer's explanation before he passed out.

"The link between us grew stronger and stronger, and finally, I was able to take back my vessel, and I didn't even have to wait for him to say yes. Simple as that, just how it was meant to be, and I barely had to wait to take back what is rightfully mine," Sam-Lucifer concluded with a triumphant smirk, and he crossed his arms in such a _Sam _way that Dean wanted to keep on denying him because there was no way he could imitate Sam like that (_even though he'd spent the last four months with his brother–no, longer than that, and maybe he was being honest and Sam was gone_).

"_No!" _He tried to yell, to scream and fight and tell Lucifer that he was wrong because he was just a goddamn hallucination and this _couldn't be happening _but it only came out as a strangled cry. He sounded so weak, even to himself, so he didn't want to imagine how he sounded to the fucking devil himself. The devil. Not Sam. Not anymore.

This is some kind of acid trip, he told himself stupidly–and he really wasn't even here with Sam; just a random stranger telling him odd things that didn't make sense because this wasn't _real_. "I don't believe you," said Dean, his voice shaking and sounding like a stupid kid's for God's sake. Who was he kidding? _He_ didn't even sound like that was what he believed, and both he and Sam–_Lucifer, dammit–_knew it.

A chuckle echoed off of the tight walls of the alleyway, and Dean looked up disbelievingly to find Lucifer facing away from him in the mouth of the alley, one hand raised in a wave. "See ya, Dean. Have fun coping."

And Sam was gone. Truly _gone_. He tried reaching out; tried to grab his brother before he could slip away from him again _no, Sammy, don't go, _but either his arm wasn't long enough or he really was too far away and all he grasped was cold, empty, worthless air.

_- - - /_

He cradled the empty bottle of beer in his hands as if it were a safety blanket and stared at the wall and wished he was dreaming. "Bobby, what am I supposed to do?" Dean whispered and tossed the bottle half-heartedly into the pile lying next to him (_since when had he drank that much? How long had he been sitting there, whining and moaning and __**not coping**__?_). "I'm alone, Bobby. Well and truly… alone." _Like Sam had been, _he added ruefully and picked up another bottle. "Alone with shitty beer and a shitty motel and no Sam."

No more Sam. No more wide, dimpled smiles or a simple '_hey Dean_' every time he walked in the door. Hell, he would even take back the bitchfaces and the arguing and the occasional punches thrown if it meant having Sam sitting and drinking a beer with him. Maybe he would even take back Sam on demon blood, because it was still Sam in a way. He was still _there _and still–alive_._

Now he had absolutely nothing (_and he was crazy on top of it, talking to empty beer bottles and desolate walls and his diminishing hopes for a miracle and something at least vaguely familiar_), and it was worse, knowing he could do absolutely nothing to fix it. He'd felt better when Sam had been killed by Jake (_and that still made him shudder every time he thought of it, the blood on his hand–__**Sam's blood**__–as he held his brother to his chest and felt him die_). Now he was the devil's vessel; the devil's bitch and he couldn't do a fucking thing about it.

Most nights he couldn't sleep and instead he just thought way too much about everything. Why did he and Sam have to be the damned "perfect vessels"? It could've been any other brothers – so why specifically them?

_It isn't fair, _he thought foolishly, but then again, when was it ever? Dean wished Sam had never opened the gate to let Lucifer out. He wished he never broke the first seal to begin this nightmare in the first place. And silently, no matter how much he hated it, he wished he had never made that deal that sent him to Hell in the first place.

_After all, Sam dead is better than being rode by an angel that's going to end the world in flames. _He tried not to voice these thoughts aloud, though, because that would make then all the more real.

___- - - /_

Dean stared impassively at himself–his past self, and damn, if he thought he was tired then, now he was just fucking _exhausted_–and wondered why the hell he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything at all. He remembered 2009 vaguely; angels and demons and Lucifer running unbridled while trying to get to Sam and trying to resist saying yes to Michael. Most of it was a blur, because the years were just running together and all he did now was drink himself to sleep and wish desperately for the past that could never be.

The future he remembered seeing when his 2009-self shot forward was a little different than the real future he was in now, although the basics were the same. Castiel didn't remember much from before, after what happened with the Leviathans and he was just–human, Bobby was long dead, and the world was going to shit but he didn't care for it much.

"Sam died in Detroit," he told the other Dean, and didn't say anything about the fact that he didn't mean _died in Detroit in 2009 _but really _died in Detroit in 2012. _There was no point, because Dean had already learned that you couldn't change the future or the past (_and his 2009 self was so hopeful that it just made him sick and nostalgic_). It didn't matter. Minor details could change, but they all ended up in the same place in the end.

_I know you won't. I know you won't say yes to Michael, either. And I know you won't kill Sam. Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up–here. I win. So, I win. _The words Lucifer–full on, completely and utterly Lucifer; Sam was _dead_–told his 20099-self when he'd traveled forward. He remembered it all too well, because those words came to bite him in the ass. Everything Lucifer said had been right, and he was too cocky to believe them.

"It doesn't matter anyway," he murmured, and 2009-Dean cocked his head.

"So, why the hell did Chuckles send me back here, anyway?"

_Zachariah, he's talking about him, _Dean noted, and wished he could be that rebellious and brash son-of-a-bitch again. Dean shrugged and turned away as he headed towards the car. "To show you what it's like. Not saying yes to Michael and what will happen to Sam." The words weren't exactly the same as he'd been told before, but it didn't matter. He didn't need to tell his past-self the truth because no matter how badly he wished for it, nothing would change.

He was going to die today and he couldn't find a reason to give a damn anymore.

___- - - /_

_I was so naïve, back then, _he thought dazedly, staring up at Sam–_Lucifer, not Sam anymore, not Sam, not–_and wishing he could talk to his brother one more time. Just once was all he needed, but he never got what he wanted so he was already set up for disappointment. He spoke anyway.

"Sam," he rasped as the foot on his throat loosened just a little. Lucifer looked down at him and his Sam-like eyes glittered in interest. "If I could take any of this back, I would. If I could change it, I would, no doubt, hands down. I'm sorry I left you alone. I'm sorry I left you with only the damn devil for company, and I don't know if you can hear me right now, and I know it doesn't change a thing–but I wish that I could change this. I guess it was always meant to be this way, in the end, huh?"

His eyes flickered to 2009-Dean as he stopped and stared at Lucifer, and the shock was obvious because he remembered feeling it. _Sam, no, _he had thought desperately, and he didn't want to believe it but it was true. It was so terribly true and he remembered thinking, _no, we'll change this. This won't happen; the future can be changed. Screw destiny and all that other crap the angels told us. We're different, and we'll change this future, Sam, I promise. _

Dean sighed and he looked up into his not-brother's eyes and even though he knew he was going to die, here, all he could do was hope that the emotions he was trying so hard to convey with his eyes alone were love and trust and the last bit of hope he had left–and maybe there was a little bit of his brother left in there to see them.

"See ya on the other side, Sammy," he murmured, his mouth twitching in a cocky grin as he gave a mock salute.

His neck snapped easily while Lucifer smiled and nodded ever-so-slightly and turned to greet his other guest.

_**.**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

* * *

_Alright, so, if you don't already realize, Lucifer isn't just a hallucination. He's kind of influincing Sam from the cage and taking him over slowly. If that makes sense, so that the apocalypse that Dean saw in 5.04 actually happens. So for a while he kinda has a false sense of security (or at least as much of one as he can have). _

_Hope that makes sense..._


End file.
